


nor this calendar nor the pulse

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: During the 27 Years (IT), Infidelity, M/M, Please read the notes!, Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28505463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In October 2014, Richie Tozier visits Barbados.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Anonymous





	nor this calendar nor the pulse

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This was supposed to be a one-shot but I decided to divide it into two chapters because I was tired of seeing the document rotting in my computer. The second half is almost complete, so the wait shouldn't be too long.
> 
> This story is set two years before the events of It Chapter 2 (2019), so please remember that Eddie is canonically married and will indeed commit adultery later.  
> Secondly, this story features alcohol and several mentions of drugs (weed and cocaine). Richie has a conflicting relationship with drugs, although I haven't imagined him as an addict. I've left mentions of his relationship with cocaine intentionally vague because I have no sufficient experience or knowledge of it. I hope this doesn't disturb anyone.
> 
> Lastly, please note I am neither a professional writer nor an English native. Let me know if there are mistakes, I'll make sure to edit!

_And I solemnly swear_

_on the chill of secrecy_

_that I know you not, this room never,_

_the swollen dress I wear,_

_not the anonymous spoons that free me,_

_not his calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover._

_For all these present,_

_before that wandering ghost,_

_that yellow moth of my summer bed,_

_I say: this small event_

_is not. So I prepare, am dosed_

_in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid._

**— Anne Sexton, The Exorcists**

**October 2014**

Richie obsessively taps his fingers against the rim of his glass with his almost finished drink. He stares at the brown liquid that’s slowly getting diluted with the melting ice, the warm temperature showing its effect. The bartender, a twenty-something girl with a fading blonde dye, is humming along with the song coming out of the speakers above the bar. 

It’s 11 a.m. in Barbados, give or take, and he wonders for a moment whether he should call his mother. His cellphone lays abandoned in his room, in the drawer of the bedside table. He hoped it could help somehow. Instead, he’s found himself itching with the need to hold something in his hands other than a glass of rum and coke. Just as he should have expected, it’s not easy to let time pass when you’re alone in a resort in Barbados with nothing to entertain you except the tiki bar by the pool and the bored bartender who’s clearly not interested in pleasing a depressed comedian with a drug problem. 

He wonders what his mom is doing right now. What do 70-something women living in a senior housing unit in Florida do in the morning? He thinks she may be knitting, but then finds himself unable to imagine his mother doing so. He’s never seen her knit anything and he’s not even sure she’s able to. Or maybe she did when he was a kid and he cannot really remember, like anything else surrounding his childhood. Is she drinking? She was drinking wine at his father’s funeral, he tells himself. He remembers her putting the stained glass on the counter, the strong scent of her perfume mixed with the smell of red wine when she hugged him awkwardly, her hand on the back of his head as he patted her back, not knowing what else to do with his hands. 

There’s movement beside him, someone approaching the counter. He doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed on his drink, but he hears a voice. 

“One part dry wine, one part seltz. Ice. And a slice of lemon.”

He can’t help but chuckle. That must alarm the person—Richie can’t see, but judging by the voice he suspects it’s a man—who snaps, “What’s so funny, asshole?”

Richie’s head turns up at that, and he’s met with the sight of a thirty-something man with big brown eyes and a frowning forehead, all worried lines and sharp angles, glaring at him as if Richie had openly offended him. He’s taken aback for a moment, feels something wrong. Maybe it’s the alcohol in his system or the hot weather, or maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but his head feels dizzy all of sudden, and the scar on his right hand prickles. 

“That’s the stupidest drink I’ve ever heard of” Richie replies after a bit, his voice a bit slowed down by the fourth drink in his hand. He clutches his glass of rum & coke and takes a sip.

“It’s Italian,” the man hisses. “And it’s not like I can get—” he eyes the glass in Richie’s hands “—fucking—whiskey, or whatever. It’s eleven in the morning”. He turns his face toward the bar, where the blonde girl is handing him an highball glass with a transparent drink, ice and a thin slice of lemon.

“It’s rum” Richie supplies. He feels like he should feel more affronted by the man’s aggressive tone but finds himself mostly amused by his response. He takes the last sip of the drink and lets one small bit of ice fall on his tongue. Maybe he’ll choke and die, he thinks. He can see the headlines: _Comedian Richie Tozier Confirmed Dead After Ice Choking Accident_. That would be kind of pathetic.

The man gives him one last glance. “Asshole” he mutters, and walks away. 

Richie lets the ice melt inside of his mouth. 

  
  
  
  


Back in his room, he strips down to his boxers, turns on the TV and orders room service. 

At his arrival at the resort, the day before, he had raised an eyebrow at the salmon-coloured walls he could see from outside. The colour was now reappearing in his room— _the Garden Suite,_ the concierge had told him—a spacious room at the first floor of a chalet with a king-sized bed, patterned curtains and pineapple-shaped lamps in the bathrooms. It reminds him of his mother’s house in Florida. He’s been twice. 

He orders a chicken club sandwich and, after a moment of pondering, adds chocolate profiteroles to the mix because it’s not like he’ll receive offers for a movie where he has to appear topless anytime soon, he reasons; and then he turns on some low-budget rom-com with Katherine Heigl.

He gets bored pretty quickly. The movie is not funny and his body is aching for something else. His mind is not there. He wonders if he should nap but he is afraid of getting nightmares. He thinks about yellow eyes watching him in the dark and blood on his hands. His eyes fly towards the scar on his right hand. It’s been itching more than usual since this morning. With his left thumb, he traces it. It has been slowly lightening since Richie can remember. One guy, back when he was in Chicago, once asked him how he had got it. He can’t even remember the guy’s name—Jaden, or something, he recalls—, just that he’d been the friend of a friend of an acquaintance, and that he had looked at Richie with big, brown eyes after one of Richie’s show and had chuckled when Richie’d told him he didn’t usually do _this sort of things_. 

_I got it doing stupid shit as a kid_ , he’d told him, laying by his side on the guy’s bed. He’d thought he would ask his parents as soon as he would see them but had forgotten, by the time he’s visited them.

Eventually, he convinces himself the best thing for him at the moment is to go smoke a cigarette.

The resort is strictly smoke-free, the concierge told him the night before. _It is also prohibited to smoke outdoor_ , he was explained cautiously. _Do I look like a a smoker?_ Richie thinks, glancing at his reflection in the window. Not that he smokes a lot, that was very twenty-year-old Richie Tozier. He has significantly cut down his smoking habits in the last ten years, but somehow still feels more secure when he’s got a packet of cigarettes with himself while travelling. 

So he takes his packet of Marlboro Gold from one of the pockets of his duffle bag and gets out of the suite, leaving the back door unlocked (what are they going to steal? His iPhone 6 that he’s probably going to throw in the ocean by the end of the week, or the empty notebook he brings with himself and never writes in?) and starts walking with no destination.

  
  
  
  


He decides to settle next to the gravel path, hidden between short palm trees. There’s no one around him. Richie isn’t even sure there’s any other guest at the resort beside him and the man he saw this morning. Steve had, in fact, assured him that he would book the most secluded place he could find. 

He sits on a rock, immediately cursing his knees who, he’s pretty sure, should not be this fucked up at forty, lights up a cigarette and smokes in silence while he looks at the ground, the only sound some birds chirping in the distance. The smell of smoke reminds him of something he can’t quite place. A bright laugh, red. Blood and scratched knees. He’d once offered a cigarette to a guy he’d fucked several times in the bathroom of a club he played at at the beginning of his career in Los Angeles and who had told Richie he’d never smoked before. Richie had taught him and then was asked when he’d started smoking. _My roommate in college_ , he’d replied, even though he was pretty sure he’d never smoked with Peter, who had shared a room with Richie for only six months before Richie dropped out and who’d showed no sign of ever wanting to bond with him.

His thoughts are suddenly interrupted when he sees a pair of shoes pacing quickly in front of him on the path and then the same pair of shoes stopping abruptly. Then a voice he’s heard before, saying, “You’re not allowed to smoke here.”

His head snaps up and there’s the same pair of brown eyes from his morning fixated on him, the same frown and pressed lips. The man from the bar is watching him intently with his hands on his waist. His skin is gleaming with a thin layer of sweat and there’s a pair of earphones in his hears. He’s wearing athletic attire—some sort of technical blue shirt that adheres to his chest and a pair of dangerously short red shorts. 

“I also read somewhere that public indecency is a crime, dude,” Richie replies, angling his chin towards the lower part of the man’s body.

It’s pretty exhilarating to see the other’s reaction: his eyes widen, the forehead loses its sharp lines and his whole face gets red.

“These” the man hisses “are running shorts. They’re Nike’s.” 

Richie keeps looking at him while he takes a long drag of the cigarette.

“I could tell the staff and have you kicked out,” he continues. 

“Is that a threat?” Richie shoots back, raising an eyebrow. 

The man sighs. He eyes him for a moment and before Richie starts to feel uneasy, he speaks. “You’re famous, right? You’re a comedian or something.”

“A comedian? Nah man, I was in Scorsese’s movie last month. You know that one with the murderer? It’s nominated for an Oscar”. He throws a wink at the man who, in response, rolls his eyes. He’s silent for a moment. Then, he walks toward Richie and sits on the rock next to him. Their arms are touching. He smells of sweat. The man’s arms are slightly sticky. Richie doesn’t move. 

“For all I know, you’re telling the truth” he says, taking earphones out of his ears. “I only recognized you because I had to look at your ugly face on a billboard outside of my office for a month”.

“Aww, you really know how to flatter a man, Mr. half-water-half-wine” Richie responds, which earns him a glaring stare. A part of him is saying he should feel insulted by the other’s claim, but he finds himself mostly amused. He isn’t really told these things in such an open and, somehow, harmless way that often. 

“Fuck you, bro. And it’s Eddie.”

“I’m Richie” he says. “ _Bro._ ”

He takes another drag before asking: “So, Eddie, office, uh? Are you an accountant or something?”

“I’m a risk analyst.”

Richie snorts. The scar on his hand stings. Richie can feel it straining, as if it wanted to expand. He digs his nails into the skin around it, hoping to cover the distraction with more pain. “I’d ask you what that is but the explanation’s probably more boring that the job.”

That earns him an elbow in the ribs. “Well I can tell you that you are at risk of fucking dying at forty-five, between the smoking and the four drinks you had this morning.”

Richie smirks. “How do you know I had four drinks?” Richie asks. He waggles his eyebrows. “Were you _stalking_ me?”

Eddie blushes again.

“I wasn’t stalking you, asshole, I had been by the pool before you arrived” he answers. He talks fast. “And it’s not like there’s a lot more people to…” He seems to think about what saying next for a second—“…observe. The only other guests are a couple who’s eighty or something. And I’m pretty sure I heard the wife say the n-word yesterday.”

Richie scoffs. “Sounds like they should be the ones to be kicked out, Eds”.

The nickname is out of his mouth before he can really evaluate it.

“It’s Eddie” Eddie replies, sharp. He puts his hands on the rock to help lift himself up. Richie glances at the way the muscles of his thigh contract. “I have to finish my run. Bye” he says without looking at Richie.

“See ya” Richie responds, staring at Eddie jogging away until he disappears behind the trees.

  
  
  
  


Back to his suites—which is still pristine and untouched, Richie isn’t surprised to find—he undresses and enters the shower. He sets the water on the coldest temperature his body can sustain and scrubs himself with the fancy soap the resort has supplied. By the end, he smells of geranium or something, whatever geranium smells like. 

He shaves and brushes his hair quickly while he lets his body dry, and then he opens his bag to pick something to wear for dinner. He doesn’t even know what’s in there—it was still full from where he had returned from a show in Chicago the week before and he lacked the will to unpack. Which means, he soon finds out, that he doesn’t really have a lot of clothes for this climate. He ends up picking a plain blue t-shirt and black jeans and makes a mental note to go buy something later. 

The resort’s restaurant is located in a long veranda made of white wood which opens up on the sight of the ocean. Richie arrives at six and he suspects immediately that it’s not solely reserved to the guests, as all the tables seem to be occupied by people he’s never seen before.

The hostess asks him if he’s booked a table and when he replies he hasn’t, she shoots him a look that, Richie assumes, means _You dumb fuck_ , and assures him that there’s a couple at table eight that is on the verge of leaving, _It will be just a moment, Sir_. 

So he stands in a corner and looks around. He kinda regrets leaving his phone in his room now, finding himself with nothing to do. 

So he observes. There’s a family of four at a table who’s eating silently, tension clearly erupting from all the members. The youngest, a brown-haired teenager with a moustache, is furiously typing at his phone. One table is occupied by a couple, a blonde haired man who’s listening to a woman talk, a gold ring with a big emerald on her finger. When he shifts his gaze to the next table, he sees Eddie, who’s already looking at him. He’s wearing a dark linen shirt and he’s alone. Richie lifts a hand to waive shyly. Eddie keeps staring, and then he gestures at a waiter. He whispers something in his ear. Richie is prepared to be kicked out of the restaurant ( _Sir, I’ve been told you’re of great disturbance to the shortstack who talks fast and called you ugly this afternoon_ ), when the same waiter approaches him and says “Sir, the gentleman from table five would like to know if you’d agree to join him at the table.”

“Uh” Richie mutters, surprised. “Sure.”

He follows the waiter to Eddie’s table and sits on the chair next to him.

“Thanks, man” he says, smiling, while the waiter sets the silverware in front of him and hands him the menu. “I’ll offer you a cigarette or something,” he jokes. 

That elicits a roll of eyes from Eddie, but he does not seem annoyed. “Are there actually people who pay to see you? Or are you Steven Spielberg’s illegitimate son or something?”

He snorts. “Do you think I’d willingly have chosen stand-up as my main source of income if I was Spielberg’s son?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. “I’d probably spend my time making pretentious bullshit movies everyone pretends to like. Lost in Translation or that kind of shit.” 

That elicits a laugh from Eddie. Richie, who should be used to see people laughing at his own jokes but is always relieved when it eventually happens—especially when they are _his own_ jokes—smiles, satisfied. Eddie laughs modestly, as if he was surprised and ashamed of finding Richie’s jokes funny, ducking his head down and shaking his head.

He observes, in that moment, how Eddie looks slightly younger than what he originally thought. The sharp lines on his forehead have disappeared and they’re likely just nervous-induced, he explains to himself. His skin is smooth, and healthy, and tinted of a pleasant tan, and his hair is different from this morning, he notices, when it was probably styled with some products. It seems soft, slightly wavy. He wonders whether Eddie went to swim in the sea and did not wash his hand afterwards. He feels a sudden need to get closer and sniff the other’s hair. He tries to swallow down the unexpected desire, conscious it’s far too early to think something so irresistibly intimate of someone he barely knows the name of.

The waitress comes by. She asks if they’d like to order and Richie is unready, the closed menu still in his hands.

“Uh, I’ll have what he’s having” he says, gesturing at Eddie.

Eddie snorts. “No, he won’t. He’ll have lobster and octopus risotto” he says. “And I’ll have the oven roasted squash. But replace the rice with quinoa and make sure there’s no cashew in it. And a bottle of Chardonnay. Thanks.”

He looks at Richie, whose mouth has quirked up into a smirk. “Shut up” he says.

“I haven’t said anything” Richie protests, throwing up both hands.

The waitress comes by with their wine. Richie lets Eddie taste it first and then tells him all wine tastes the same to him. Eddie spends the next fifteen minutes explaining to him the difference between Chardonnay and Pinot Grigio, and Richie spends half of Eddie’s explanation actually listening to what he is saying and the other half staring dumbly at the man’s eyes and the faint freckles on his nose. 

Then the food comes and Eddie lets Richie lead the conversation with some small talk. Eddie, Richie notices, is a classy eater. He meticulously cuts his squash into tiny pieces, drinks his glass of wine with honest effort to appreciate its scents and never talks until all the food in his mouth has been swallowed. He observes Eddie’s hands holding the knife. They’re small and smooth. Eddie’s probably the type of guy who gets weekly manicures, Richie thinks, looking at the man’s perfectly cut nails and soft cuticles. 

Eddie asks him if he wants to share and Richie nods.

“But I have to be honest, Eds” he says. “I don’t kiss on first dates.” (Which is not true, at all. Not that Richie’s had a lot of first dates).

So they share a blood orange _semifreddo_ and Richie hands his debit card to the waiter before Eddie has time to protest. 

When they exit the restaurant there’s a stilted, awkward silence. And, Richie realises, this is the first moment it’s felt like that in the entire evening. That’s likely because Eddie has a sharp mouth and challenges Richie’s joke like he’s being paid for it, he reasons. Or maybe, a small part of him suggests, eyes fixed on the small grey freckles on Eddie’s nose, it’s something more. The _semifreddo_ in his stomach feels heavy now and he traces the coarse line of the scar of his hand to fixate his mind on something else. 

“Where are you staying?” Eddie asks. Richie eyes him. “The, uh—the Garden Suite” he replies. 

Eddie’s nose scrunches up.

“With the pink ugly walls?” he asks. Richie nods.

“I’m in the Kingsland Suite” Eddie continues, as if he expects Richie to recognise something in the name. When he doesn’t say anything—he’s silently pondering on whether lighting a cigarette in front of Eddie would be a good idea or would just awaken another murderous look—Eddie speaks. “We can walk together for a bit” he suggests, eyeing him from the side.

“Sure” Richie replies, but Eddie’s already started to walk.

They stroll in comfortable silence along the gravel path surrounded by palm trees and all the other tropical plants Richie can’t name. Eddie’s shorter but matches Richie’s pace easily. He stops at the point where the path divides into two. “This is mine’s” he explains, gesturing at where the trees open and Richie can catch sight of an illuminated porch. “Okay” he manages to pop out, unsure of what the next move should be. 

Eddie’s standing in front of him. They’re a few centimetres apart. He’s shorter than Richie by a few inches. He’s eyeing him carefully and Richie is growing sheepish before his gaze, like he can see through him or something. If he had drunk a little bit more tonight, Richie thinks, he would probably invite himself to the guy’s room; touch him a little with the excuse of being an affectionate drunk. 

“I had a good night” Eddie says, eventually. He turns towards the suites. “Have a good night, Richie”.

Richie replies, “You too, Eds”, but Eddie’s already disappearing behind the trees.

  
  
  


That night, he dreams of a cast and freckles and diving into water. It’s a warm dream, tinted by a yellow light and it feels like something he doesn’t have, too far to reach. He wakes up with the desperate need for _something_. Like there’s something missing inside of him but he doesn’t know what. 

Being clean sucks, Richie thinks, too aware of everything surrounding him, the dizzy feeling of the consciousness of being alive. 

When he opens his eyes, it takes a moment to remember where he is. Then he makes out the pink-coloured walls, the trees outside of the window door and his duffle bag in a corner. He closes his right hand into a fist and feels the scar there, an unusually reassuring touch.

There’s not really that much to do in a resort in Barbados when you’re a lonely C-list comedian who’s trying to avoid hard drugs. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion that the most obvious thing to do is go to the pool. And maybe sit at the bar. And maybe get a drink or two. So, he gets up and goes to the bathroom. He jerks off under the shower, because he needs something to clear his mind from the dream he had tonight, and then walks, naked, to his duffle bag, water dropping on the floor. He rummages in it for two minutes before he’s reminded on sight that the packing he had done for Chicago is not really fit for the Barbados weather.

After setting aside too many sweaters, he puts on yesterday’s outfit—black shirt and black jeans— and trots to the lobby. 

  
  
  
  


He hears him before he sees him: Eddie’s voice’s ringing across the room. He finds him in front of the concierge, complaining about the A/C in his room. _I understand, Sir_ , the concierge’s managing to say between sentences. _I’ll call someone immediately_. He’s so engrossed in whatever he’s saying that he doesn’t notice Richie standing beside him until a few moments later, once he’s calmed down. 

“Oh. Hey” he says and Richie waves at him in response.

“What can I help you with, Sir?” the concierge, (Paul, his name tag reads) asks in his direction.

“Oh. Yeah. Uh, so, I sort of messed up with my luggage. Is there any place, like a town nearby, where I can buy some clothes?” 

Before Paul can open his mouth, Eddie speaks up. “St. Peter’s a thirty minutes ride.” Without waiting for Richie’s answer, he turns to the concierge. “Can you call us a cab to get there, please?”

Richie blinks slowly. He looks at Eddie. “Dude. I don’t need you babysitting me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes in response. “I’m not, asshole. I need to get something from the pharmacy anyway.”

The ride to the town takes a little bit more than thirty minutes. Richie seats in the passenger seat in the back, observing the landscape outside passing by, the ocean just a thin blue line. Eddie sits in the front, chatting more placidly that Richie’s seen in the last twenty-four hours with the driver, a man named Izaiah who tells them he has a cousin who lives in Florida.

Izaiah drops them off in front of a pharmacy as per Eddie’s request. “Wait here, it’ll be just a moment” Eddie tells Richie before he disappears inside, leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk.

His tummy rumbles and when he glances inside the store and notices that Eddie still hasn’t reached the top of the line, he approaches a street vendor and buys some sugary treat—sugar cake, he’s told, while he accepts the pink pastry.

He finishes it before Eddie’s outside. He’s holding a small plastic bag in his hands. He takes a look at Richie from head to toe and Richie feels suddenly naked. “Let’s go find you some clothes” Eddie says, before striding off. 

“You were in there forever,” Richie whines once he’s reached Eddie.

He doesn’t really say it in an accusatory tone. But Eddie’s shoulders go rigid and he makes a point of not looking at Richie. “Sorry,” he mumbles, sheepish.

Richie thinks about reaching out to touch his shoulder reassuringly but decides against it, afraid that might make him uncomfortable—or that it may reveal something.

They are silent for the rest of the walk, until Richie spots a small shop tucked into a corner, patterned shirts hanging outside. 

“What do you think?” he asks when they’re inside, showing Eddie a red shirt with Hawaiian print.

Eddie scrunches his nose.

“The bar for style for comedians is really low, uh?” he says.

Richie laughs. “I’ll have you know—” he says, trying to be as serious as possible. “I was actually elected Best Dressed Entertainer of 2015.”

Eddie’s silent for a moment. He raises an eyebrow. “No you didn’t” he suggests, unsure.

Richie holds his gaze for a moment before he’s sighing, defeated. “No I didn’t. But I had you for a moment.”

Eddie doesn’t reply. He keeps looking at the shirts on the rack until he picks out a blue one, small turtles printed on the front. “This’ll look nice on you. The blue complements your eyes,” he says, and then ducks his head down as if he’d said something wrong. 

Richie ends up buying the shirt, along with the red one, a white linen shirt he might never use outside the island (but that, Eddie insists, is perfect for this kind of weather because _Linen’s a breathable fabric, Richie_ ), two pairs of everyday shorts and two swim shorts Eddie raises an eyebrow at when he sees their obnoxious patterns.

When they finally get out of the shop, Eddie turns to Richie and asks him the time. Richie’s hand goes to his jeans pocket when he realizes he has no way to know. “I don’t have my phone with me.”

“What kind of person goes to an unknown town with someone he’s known for less than a day and doesn’t bring his phone?” He says, and takes his own phone out of the pocket of his shorts. “It’s noon” he announces. Reasonably, they could still have time to call a cab, wait for the cab, drive back to the resort and have lunch there, Richie thinks. 

Eddie’s looking at him. His hair are still as soft-looking at yesterday and Richie wants to touch it. He wonders whether Eddie feels whatever there is between them, or if Richie’s just tricking himself into reckless attraction because he needs to work off the tension he’s acquired over the last few days. 

“Do you want to have lunch?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Eddie nods. 

  
  
  
  
  


They end up in a small restaurant Eddie promptly checks on TripAdvisor before entering. Richie doesn’t really trust reviews sites and makes a point of telling Eddie so, but Eddie just scoffs and rolls his eyes and replies, “Of course you’d be the type of person who doesn’t trust them. By the way, it has four stars out of five.” 

The space is surrounded by orange walls and hosts only six tables, all covered by crimson tablecloths. There’s a green wooden bench resting against the wall adjacent to what must be the kitchen, judging by the waiter coming out with plates full of food. The waiter approaches them with a grin and gestures at the nearest table. 

Richie gets the chicken stew and then proceeds to watch, amused, as Eddie first stutters alterations to his order to then exclaim, right after the fifth change: “You know what? Fuck it, just give me the real version. Just make sure there’s no cashews.” Then he turns to Richie, who’s shuddering with a contained laugh, and scoffs. “Shut up.”

Richie mimics zipping his mouth. That seems to satisfy him enough. 

The waiter brings water for both and a beer for Richie. While he takes the first sip, Eddie pours himself a glass of water, extracts one of the packets of medicine from the plastic bag and carefully takes one capsule out. In a way which he hopes looks uninterested, he observes Eddie’s fingers brushing his tongue to put the medicine at the back of his throat; the way a small droplet of water escapes the glass that’s just touched his lips, and his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows. Richie readjusts in his seat, trying to focus on the label on his bottle of beer.

“That’s for my allergies,” Eddie explains unprompted. 

“Allergy to what?” Richie asks. He leans back on his seat, while Eddie remains stiff on his chair. He’s wearing a mint green polo and his hair isn’t styled, just like last night.

“Uh,” Eddie mutters, “A little bit of everything.” He pauses for a moment. “My wife knows more than me.”

Richie’s eyebrows shoots up in surprise. “You’re married?”, he asks, and his eyes fall instinctively on the other man’s hand, where there’s no sign of a ring. 

Eddie must notice, because he gets all defensive. “I don’t bring the ring around to places like this,” he explains.

“That’s racist,” Richie replies, no actual accusation in his tone.

Eddie scoffs. “If one of us was to be racist, that’d be you.”

“What? I’m not the Wall Street asshole, dude.”

“I don’t even work in Wall Street!” 

Richie leans forward, towards Eddie. “Let me guess. You live in Chappaqua and own a three-bedroom house with your wife and your two-point-five kids.”

Eddie leans a little bit forward, too. “I live in Queens, you asshole. And I don’t have kids.”

“Oh,” Richie exhales, defeated. “And you’re here alone?” he asks before he can think about what he’s asking, or why.

Eddie takes a moment to eye Richie before answering. Eddie’s eyes are big, Richie thinks, holding his gaze. They’re big, and brown, and warm, and somehow make everything Eddie says less threatening. 

“Yes,” Eddie simply says in the end, breaking the competition. “My wife doesn’t really like traveling.”

He doesn’t say anything further, and Richie doesn’t push. He feels slightly relieved when the waiter arrives with their food, because he’s been growing uncomfortable talking about Eddie’s actual life. 

He’s afraid he’s broken whatever there was between them, but after the plates are sat down and Richie burns his tongue by forgetting to wait for the food to cool down, they start bickering away in a way that feels unreasonably familiar. 

Eddie’s comebacks are quick and sharp and slightly insulting. He seems to be offended by everything Richie says but he forgets about it one minute later. He knows more than the ordinary person about medicines and first aid and insists on paying. 

They call a cab and sit together in the backseat. Their hands are so close they almost touch. Richie thinks for a moment that it could be so easy to just take Eddie’s hands in his. The driver wouldn’t even see. He used to do that once, during his twenty-eight year of life, when he dated Daniel, an assistant professor who he’d met while on a catering side job. When he was tipsy enough, on an Uber back to either’s apartment. He would feel a sense of electricity from it and Daniel would glance at him, smile a little, like you smile at a kid. 

As if Eddie could hear his thoughts, he turns his head from the window and smiles at Richie. Richie smiles back.

  
  



End file.
